The Notes
by TwinkleWonderKid666
Summary: We can guess who's behind this, but how? Johnlock slash, possible occasional Mystrade
1. Chapter 1

So this is it. The case. The case to end all cases. Though I'm sure John will disagree with me and say I'll get bored again immediately after this is finished. I probably will, he knows me best.

So, to the case then. Lestrade called us this morning with the words "Suicide, Sherlock, we all know how you love it..." I'm very glad it was I and not John who answered to that particular phone call. "Come have a look at these." Well, frankly, he had me at suicide.

We, John and I, enter New Scotland Yard amid chaos. People scurrying to and fro, policemen filling out forms, who let them near stationary?, and Lestrade shouting down a colleague who was, unfortunately, not Anderson.

"How the FUCK did you think that was acceptable behavi- ah, there you are Sherlock, we've been waiting for you." He nodded to the colleague, "This will be resumed later. You may go."

"Thank you, Sir." He said hastily retreating, presumably to find some wall to scrawl his pictograms on.

"Trouble in the flock?" John remarked.

"There always is in a big case like this." Lestrade replied.

"Come on then, dish out the details." John said, his face brightening with such eagerness that I wanted to reach out and kiss him, right there and then, but that would have to wait til later.

"Well, three apparent suicides, a middle-aged man, a young, teenage girl and an elderly woman, each through different methods, each in different parts of London. So what connects them, I hear you ask-"

"Alright, spare us the dramatics, just tell us." I said residually, knowing how Lestrade would go on.

"Alright, alright, I was getting to that bit. They all left notes, on the same paper type with the same ink pen type and the same handwriting. That rules out any chance of a coincidence. But each was particular to that persons life and gave no reason for their suicide."

"Let me see one. Where are they?" I asked, though John did say 'demanded, as usual' on his blog.

"In my office, if we could only get there."

We'd been on our way since the start of the conversation but amount of people in the corridors meant easy passage was impossible.

"Excuse me," I called out in the loudest voice possible, "the call has just come in, someone's been shot in Kensington." A great hubbub insued in which we only managed to stop ourselves from being swept away by sheer dint of effort, but it passed in a few seconds and we managed to get to Lestrade's office without further trouble.

"I wish you wouldn't do that Sherlock," Lestrade whined, "I am going to have to fill out so many forms later."

"What? It cleared the corridor, didn't it? What's the problem, Greg?" He didn't reply but I saw John choke down a chuckle as we reached the office door. Lestrade unlocked the door and let us in. I remember nothing from that moment apart from the notes which, I presume, John managed to persuade Lestrade to allow me to take home as they are sitting on the desk in front of me.

No, I tell a lie, I do remember one moment.

We had just reached 221B Baker Street and I was muttering something about cabbie's and their shoes and how you never see them so that must reflect their personalities when John said "I just want to kiss you right now."

"Come on then." I replied.

And suddenly we were there, smooching, in the middle of the sitting room, jackets discarded on the armchairs to be attended to later. I felt John's hot breath on my neck, "Shall we continue this?"

I answered him by somehow getting us, still entwined, across to our bedroom, more for the modesty of Mrs Hudson than for actual need of a bed.

We got in and I whipped off John's belt while he undid my trousers, all while still snogging. Who said men couldn't multi-task?

I finally wrenched down John's undergarments and sat for a moment staring at his full, erect penis wondering, as I always do when I get the chance, how I, Sherlock Homes, the man with no friends, could do that to someone, could make someone feel that strongly about me. Me?

I felt his hazel eyes pass over me and heard my words repeated to me, "Come on then."

I pulled him towards me as I stood up, my hands on his delicious buttocks, my tongue tracing from his groin, up, circumnavigating his belly button, and up, up til our lips met and his cock jutted into my thigh.

He broke the kiss to moan "Sherlock..." I threw him down on to the bed and leaped after him, but I wasn't ready to stop teasing quite yet. Instead of getting right into it, I started nibbling his earlobe, my tongue just poking into the shell and I felt John splutter with almost orgasmic delight. He pulled me off and we, finally, got down to it. Let's just say, we really need to get a new carpet soon.

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**Please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

I think Sherlock's been talking while I've been out again.

I come in and what are the first words I hear? Not "hello, darling", not greetings of any kind in fact. The first words I hear after a long day at the surgery are: "-ina, it must be China! Oh, how could I have been so stupid?!"

"What are you talking about Sherlock?"

"Haven't you been listening, John?"

"I've been at work, I told you this morning! I stood directly in front of you and told you! Could you not hear?"

"I was thinking."

I sighed. "Tell me about China then, we taking a vacation?"

"We may have to, the note paper and ink, it's Chinese."

"Black Lotus?"

"Quite possibly, though there are other gangs working."

"But that doesn't make sense, why the suicides? Okay, to get rid of operatives but then why the obvious note?"

"Exactly, John, exactly! Thank goodness you're not dull."

"That's a rare compliment coming from you, Sherlock." I replied, trying to suggest 'take my trousers off as loudly as possible.

"Can't, John, working." He said resuming the all-too-well-known thinking position on the couch. Dammit, that could mean weeks.

Well, while Sherlock was 'working' I had to entertain myself. I phoned Lestrade to tell him of the developments and wrote on my blog. Not necessarily in that order. Days passed and I went to work, got food, talked with Mrs Hudson, all the normal, hum-drum things necessary to keep Sherlock and I alive while he sat there only moving to another room if me and Mrs Hudson talked too loud. I didn't once see him go to use the loo. Perhaps he does that when I'm out.

It reached the eleventh day and I was just returning from lunch with Molly when my thoughts were interrupted by violin music echoing down the stairs.

I opened the door just as the enchanting piece finished. "Thinking over then?"

"For now, for now." He replied, laying the violin carefully back in its case.

"Come on, then, what's the story?"

"Later John, later, I-"

"But-" I attempted to interrupt only to be interrupted myself.

"John," He said, his at present cornflour blue eyes gazing directly into mine. "I'm no longer working."

"Alright, but this time you're mine" I replied, half dragging him to the bedroom, being careful to pick up his purple scarf along the way.

I stripped him and tied his hands to the bedstead, as he lay there, almost obediently, making sure my hands went all over his beautiful alabaster skin. As soon as this was done, I called out "Turn over!" As he did so, I pulled a riding crop out from under the bed, He almost squealed in shock.

"Where did you get that?!"

"I have my sources." I smiled at him and tracing the crop down his long backbone, I said, "Now do as I say, if you do, you will get a reward, if you do not you will get this..." And I whacked the crop down hard on his delightful buttocks, making him gasp.

"You like that?"

"Yeeess..." He moaned in reply.

I brought the crop down hard again. "Yes, what?!" I bawled.

"Yes, Sir." He giggled. I almost did to with the absurdity of it. Instead, I climbed on to the bed and started stroking his inner thigh with my already hard cock. I heard him moan.

"Get reward now?"

"What do you say?" I said, whisking the riding crop through his crack.

"Please, John."

"Say it again!" I said, mounting him and rubbing my cock up and down his spine.

"Please, John!"

"One more time!" I said, hovering just above his backside, firm and ready.

"PLEASE, JOHN!"

"YES SHERLOCK!" I bellowed, as I finally thrust deep into my 'friend's' behind. I whipped off my shirt and flung myself towards him, making sure as much of our skin was touching as possible. As I did so, I reached up and undid the scarf, releasing him from the bedstead and allowing us to writhe together.

After a couple of minutes of frantic thrusting, I could feel myself nearing the end. I was just thinking about forcing myself to hold on when I heard, and felt, Sherlock reach orgasm and let myself to come just after him, allowing me to dismount and snuggle next to him, all before we stopped panting.

"John Watson," he said, his now almost violet eyes turning towards mine. "I truly love you."


	3. Chapter 3

Think Sherlock, just think!

You know someone's trying to attract your attention, in fact you can probably guess who, though you'll never prove it. Also, no-one else appears in immediate danger which is strange for Moriarty case, an underling then? Or a wannabe, someone with aspirations but not quite the intelligence. If so, where does China come into this? Or is that just to throw me off the sent, it is very deliberate. But then it could be a double, or even triple, bluff.

Oh Damn and Blast. I need some air.

"John, I'm going out."

"Where to?"

"Just out."

"Can you ge-"

I cut him off by shutting the front door. I'm about to stride away when I hear the door latch open again. It's John.

"Can you get some milk then? We're all out. Cow's milk this time, please Sherlock."

"That was an honest mistake, it was very small writing."

"Sherlock, it had a massive picture of a goat on it, a mere cursory glance at what we have to consume for the next week would be appreciated."

"Don't try to talk like me, John. It doesn't suit you." I walked off, though John would say stalked or even stormed. He didn't say anything, he just stood there and watched me go.

I headed for Regents Park but changed my mind and took a cab to Archer Street, Soho to a little-known dive round the back of the Apollo Theatre. I knocked on the door.

"What you wanting?" A voice hissed from within.

"Hey Steve, it's me."

"Sherlock!" The voice brightened as the door creaked open. "Long time, no see!"

"Yeah, I've been trying to hold out." I said as I walked through the doorway. It groaned shut behind me. "You've improved the creak, I see."

"Yeah, it took me weeks with a dusty cloth! That's why I like you, Sherlock, you notice things like that." He said as we started to walk down the stairs. "Most people just think it comes natural, they don't realise the man hours it takes keeping this place having the right ambience."

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Sherlock's been out for about five hours now. He left at 5 o'clock so that makes it 10. He's stalked off before but never for a whole night. I hope he remembers the milk.

_Where's your charge, little solider? – MH _

Oh right, so I'm meant to clear up after him again. Wonderful.

_How am I meant to know? – John H. Watson_

I hate their little initials game. It's like they're pretending to be spies.

_Tut, tut, letting him go out alone. He's in a 'dive' behind Apollo Theatre. – MH_

Oh, damn. I thought he'd stopped. I know it's futile but...

_You're his big brother, why don't you go save him? – John Hamish Watson_

_Do I really need to answer that J? – MH_

Was the immediate reply. Sigh, here we go.

"Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's got himself into a sticky situation. I need to get him out of it."

"Well, make sure you wrap up warm. Going out at this time of night in November, you'll freeze. Shall I prepare a light supper for your return?"

"I don't think he'll be in a fit state to eat when we return."

"Oh, that kind of sticky situation. Well, good luck."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson." I said, finally shutting the front door.

I amazingly managed to get a cab at that time of night on a week day so arrived at the dive in relative comfort. I got out and asked the cabbie to wait.

"Fat chance, mate. Not in this area."

I thanked him and let him get on his way.

I knocked on the correct door. "What you want?" a voice managed to hiss from inside, apart from the fact it had absolutely no esses in it.

"I've come to see Sherlock Holmes." I replied.

"Does he know you're coming?" the voice hissed again. The man must have the tongue of a snake.

"As he's been here for the past five hours, he probably doesn't even remember I exist."

"Ah, John, hello again." The voice said. As the door creaked open.

"Hey, Steve. Where is he then?"

"Down here." And he led me down a grimy, dark staircase.

I found Sherlock in the room just past the one with the transgender dancers in it.

"'Scuse me, Ashley. That's a nice new dress, very... sequin-ey."

"Thanks" Was the growled reply.

The room was dark and cramped with dingy bunk beds in it. Sherlock was in the bottom bunk furtherest from the door. An empty needle lay beside him.

"I hope to god that was clean." I muttered as I checked him over for injuries. Apart from the marks on his arms which I swabbed with anti-sceptic, he was fine.

"Sherlock, Sherlock? It's me, John, can you hear me?" No answer. He's way out. "I've come to take you home."

"Hey, Steve!"

"Yeah?"

"Is there another way out of here?"

"No, sorry mate." He said sheepishly.

"I'm not your mate." "Right, here we go..." I picked him up, thank god he rarely eats. I turned and carried Sherlock out through the door I came in.

"You're too good for him, John, you really are."

"Thanks, Ashley, I know." I replied as I started to carry him up the stairs.

I'd just got out into the chill night air and turned to start the long walk back to civilisation when I saw Mycroft's car pull up. For once I was grateful.

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**A dive is like a speakeasy. A small house, usually, that sells alcohol, and other things occasionally, generally illegal.**

**Apollo Theatre is real. The dive is not. Probably.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Lots of view-point changing (marked by a line of %%%%%%%'s) and a slightly fluffy ending.**

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Chapter 4

Where am I?

No, first, who am I? Well, that one's easily answered; I'm Sherlock Homes. Now to where I am. I'll have to open my eyes for that. Well, hear we go... My own bedroom, I wasn't expecting that out-come. I thought hospital due to the feel of clean sheets, that meant it couldn't be Steve's still. Right, now to the most difficult question of all: How did I get here? I remember going to Steve's, taking the stuff, then... nothing. Well, I suppose that is really the point in going to Steve's, to not remember, but that brings me no closer to discovering how I ended up home. Wait, I'm home, that means John's almost certainly here, I can ask him, I'll just go get him. Right, how do I get up again, no, I remember, legs swing round, touch floor, and body up. Oops, I don't think the floor's meant to come towards you.

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What was that crash?

"John? John!"

Oh, it was Sherlock.

"I'm here, don't worry, lets get you back in to bed, shall we?" I say picking him up out of his heap.

"John, I tried to come get you."

"Did you, now? Get back into bed, that's it. And why was that?" I say, covering him up again, resisting the urge to tuck him in.

"I wanted to ask you how I got here?" He replies, slightly muzzily.

"I carried you out of Steve's, do you remember going to Steve's?"

"Yes, John, I am slightly incapithpa- incapacifliar- unwell at the moment, I am not a child."

"Ah, you are recovering well aren't you? More rest needed I think."

"I'm sorry John, I told you I wouldn't go back to Steve's" He says, finally recognising my slightly icy tone.

"Of course you are Sherlock, you always are just after you break your promises. Now, go back to sleep, you realise it's two in the morning? I'm going back to bed."

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He turns to go.

"Stay with me John!" I call out, suddenly strangely desperate for his company.

"What?!" He says, incredulous, why wouldn't he be? This has never happened before, we always part after sex. We don't **sleep** together.

"Please, John, get in beside me. Please."

"Um, Okay..."

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I slide in. Sherlock Homes asking for company, he's definitely 'ill'.

"John," He says, turning towards me, "why am I naked? I don't usually sleep naked, do I?"

"I wouldn't know, I'm not usually here. But this time it's because when I got you home, I managed to get you undressed but when I tried to put you in pyjamas, you started fiting/fighting me so I just left you how you are and put you to bed."

"Did you carry me all the way from Steve's?" He says, surprised.

"No, when I carried you outside, Mycroft's car turned up and we went home that way." I say, looking at him.

"Oh, so Mycroft knows about this then."

"Yes, Sherlock, though I'm guessing that wasn't really a question. He was the one who told me you'd gone to Steve's in the first place. I can show you the texts if you like." I say, half moving to go.

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"No!" I call out, a little too hurriedly, "*cough* I'd prefer if you just stayed here for now."

"Okay." He says chuckling at my unexpected neediness. He moves slightly closer.

"John, you're cold!" His feet are simply hypothermia-enducing cold. And they just touched my calf.

"Yes, that's what happens when you have to get up three times a night."

"Three times?! Shit, I don't remember them!" This is the first time I've woken up, surely.

"Oh, you wouldn't, you weren't awake. You were screaming and shouting the house down though. Thank goodness we invested in that sound-proofing for the bedrooms after the neighbours changed their wifi to 'we-can-hear-you-fucking'. The whole neighbourhood would know of your worst fears. And some of the proper weird shit that goes on in your brain."

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"Like what?" I ask, intrigued.

"Well," He says turning towards me, as if he was a child telling a secret, "the funniest was where Anderson was eating you but you had turned into -what was it? Oh yeah- a purple tortilla butterfly so you flew up his nostrils and into his brain. But then you just started screaming: 'It's a vacuum! There's nothing here! Not even air! I shall die of STUPIDITY!' Me and Mrs Hudson couldn't stop giggling."

"You giggled? I've never seen you giggle. Snort, laugh and chuckle but not giggle."

"Would you like to?"

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"You betcha." We lean forward into a kiss. It's magical. We finish and I'm about to go in for more when...

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" No response, he's fast asleep. Bastard, just as it was getting interesting. Ah well, I guess I'll just have to **sleep** with him tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

**I probably should have said this earlier but oh well... Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this and neither are any of the actual buildings mentioned in this story (apart from 221B Baker Street, of course). I try to make the places geographically accurate but as I don't live in London, they'll all based off of Google Maps (other map services are available).**

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Chapter 5

The phone rings. It's Lestrade. "Hello, Sherlock is that you?"

"No, it's John, Sherlock's – Sherlock's sleeping at the moment."

"Well, get him up there's been another suicide!"

"What?! But it's been at least three weeks!"

"Yes, we realise that John, hence why we need Sherlock." Says Lestrade, like he's talking to a thick child.

"Alright, no need to be rude, you realise you woke up as well. I'll go see if he's in a fit state to come. I'll ring back soon."

"Be sure you do!" And with that he hung up. Not even a goodbye.

I patter in to Sherlock's bedroom. He's still fast asleep, even though I had to struggle out of his arms to answer the phone. He looks so peaceful. I'll wake him in the nicest way possible.

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As I slowly resurface through the layers of consciousness, I feel a pressure on my lips and a tingle go down my spine. I open my eyes. "John." I say quietly.

"Sherlock." He smiles back at me. Then he delivers the news I have been waiting for all these weeks past. "There's been another suicide. Lestrade wants us to go down."

"Yes!" I try to spring out of bed, and fall miserably back on to the pillows.

"You're not well enough to go, I shouldn't have told you. I'll tell Lestrade he'll have to wait a few days." He says, concern literally dripping from his voice.

"No," I reply, slightly more forcefully than intended, "I can do it. I just need to take things slightly slower than usual."

"Alright," He replies, not sounding convinced, "but breakfast first, then a bath so at least you don't look like you're recovering from a near-overdose."

"Oi, there's no need for that!" I say, mock-hurt."Help me up then."

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I clamber off the bed and to Sherlock's side, first building him a bank of pillows he can ease himself on to before gently pulling him up, my arm supporting his back continually. I keep hold of his arm as he takes his first step out of bed in days, making sure he doesn't tumble again.

"Thank you." He mutters, when he's fully upright and is about to brush me off and stride purposefully away when he suddenly clutches his head and sits rapidly back down on the end of the bed. I hurry to his side.

"You alright?"

"Yes, John, it was just a small bout of dizziness, I'm fine stop fussing. Just a little dehydrated, that's all." He says, not looking fine at all.

"Definitely breakfast first." I say. "Just hold on to my arm until we get to the kitchen, okay?" I look directly into his eyes. He looks as if he's about to pass comment but changes his mind and just grabs my arm instead.

We make it to the kitchen without further incident, thankfully I managed to clad him in pyjamas this time, and I set him down lightly in a dining chair. I pour him out a glass of water and a glass of orange juice.

Freshly squeezed, of course.

"Right," I say, "I'm going to phone Lestrade and say we'll be there in about two hours, maybe two and a half. By the time I come back I want at least one of these drunk, okay?"

"Yes, Doctor." He grumbles in return.

"Good." I leave him and go to the telephone.

"Lestrade, yes, it's John here, we'll be there in about two hours, maybe two and a half."

"Two HOURS!" Lestrade replies, I need you here in two minutes, no make that two minutes ago!"

"Sherlock is recovering from an, an, um, a serious illness," I reply, finally hitting on the right phrasing, "I still think he's too, um, unwell to go but he's demanding to come so it's two hours or never, I'm afraid."

"NEVER!" I hear the shouted reply from the other end, not Lestrade but some other voice, presumably Anderson's or Donovan's.

"Shut the fuck up Anderson!" I hear Lestrade shout, confirming my suspicions. "Look, John, can I call you back in about half an hour? Things are getting hectic here and we need to talk about Sherlock's 'illness'." I could hear the inverted commas clunking into place.

"Sure thing, Greg, talk to you then." This time I hung up.

I got back to Sherlock and he'd made a very valiant effort. He'd drunk all his water and nearly half his orange juice as well. "Good boy Sherlock," I say, combing my fingers through his slightly matted curls, "now, you wait here and I'll rustle up the perfect dish for when you're ill." I hurry off before he can retort. "And try to finish that orange juice!" I shout over my shoulder.

"May I remind you, I am not in fact a child, John!" Sherlock tries to reply but I am gone.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"What is that?" I say simply, when John returns with a tray.

"Mashed banana and jam." He replies, laying the spoon in front of me.

"It looks like sick."

"But tastes delicious!" He says brightly while trying to force the spoon into my hand.

"It looks like someone had a nose-bleed while throwing up half-digested curry." It does. It's disgusting. I still refuse to take the spoon.

"Come on now, the quicker you eat, the quicker we can get to the crime scene!" No reaction. He sighs. "Fine, if you won't eat, I shall have to feed you. Come on, open up." He says, scraping some of the stuff on to a spoon. I open my mouth. "That's it," he says soothingly, "it's delicious, honestly." The spoon reaches my mouth, I close and John withdraws the spoon. It's alright actually. Quite sweet, thought the texture's a bit weird, a bit slimy. It doesn't take much chewing and slides down my throat quite happily. I open my mouth for more. Three more mouthfuls like this, with John feeding me, when the phone rings. "That'll be Lestrade again, now, are you going to eat this now?"

"Yes John, of course John." I reply mockingly, and pick up the spoon,

"Good." He says smugly and hurries to the still-ringing phone.

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"Hello, John, it's me, Lestrade, I can talk now, can you?"

"Yes. For a bit, he's eating breakfast." I reply as I hurriedly duck into my bedroom, the room furthest from the kitchen, and shut the door.

"He's not really ill, is he." It was a statement not a question. "Sherlock Homes doesn't get ill."

"No, he isn't. He recently had a relapse and went to Steve's, you remember?"

"What, the dive behind the Apollo Theatre? That manky place? Sherlock?" Says Lestrade, getting more incredulous with each question.

"Yeah, that manky place." I say residually.

"I didn't know he was selling hard stuff now! I presume by relapse you mean cocaine?" I grunt to the affirmative. "We should go round and bust it out."

"Don't bother," I reply, "Ashley and her friends would have no place to go."

"Ashley?" Lestrade question, perplexed.

"The transgender dancers he employs there, they practically live there too."

"Not my division." He says, almost coldly.

"Neither's drugs." I reply.

"Anyway... Getting back to Sherlock, how is he?" He says, after the slightly too long pause.

"Well, he's making scything comments and mocking me so his minds fine, it's his body that's a worry. More than a bit... delicate at the moment, so no funny arguing with Anderson or Donovan, he's not up to it. And he can only come out for half an hour, forty-five minutes tops, due to his condition." I say with only slightly forced jollity.

"Yes, Doctor Watson." Lestrade drones, laughing, easing the conversation back into its flow. "When can he come out and play?"

"Not yet, he hasn't had his bath!" I say in a mock-mothering tone. "That reminds me, I must leave you now, I need to check if he's finished his breakfast." I say laughing.

"Alright, I'll leave you to your babysitting. Two hours it is then?"

"One and a half now." I reply.

"Whoop-de-bloody-doo!" He says and hangs up.

I return to to Sherlock. He's licking the plate clean. "Wow, you must have been hungry to eat –what was it you called it? Oh yeah– 'half-digested curry that someone's had a nose-bleed over'!" I jest.

"Shush now John, you know full well I haven't eaten in several days. In my state, I would probably eat the half-digested nose-bleed curry." He says, smiling back at me.

"Don't be disgusting now, Sherlock." I respond laughing. "Come now, Bath time!" And grab his hand to lead him to the bathroom as he groans.

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I sit on the toilet, with the seat down mind you, as John fusses about filling the bath, getting towels, and so on.

"Come on now," He says at last, "off with those jim-jams and into the bath." I stagger upright too quickly and have to hold on to the towel rack for balance. "You alright Sherlock?" He asks, steeping forward and grabbing me with his strong arms.

"Of course." I say a little unsteadily. Surely there shouldn't be this many spots in the bathroom, it must be my eyes.

"Sit back down, I'll undress you." He says, basically pushing me back down in to my seat. "Arms up." He orders, I don't disobey. The pyjama shirt is cast to the floor. "Now the trousers mean you'll have to get up, is that alright?"

"Of course, John." Though I don't brush him off this time and allow him to help me up. I pull down my own trousers though. Fully nude, I step into the bath and sit down. An involuntary sigh escapes from my lips as the hot water eases round my tired muscles.

"Do you want me to leave so you can wash yourself? I'll come back in ten minutes and wash your hair and back." John timidly asks.

"No, John. Stay here and talk to me. I can wash myself but I need you to fill me in on the details of the case." I reply, smoother than I expected to be able to.

"Alright, but there's not much to tell." He replies, taking a seat on the closed toilet. "All I know is that there's been another suicide and that it somehow must be connected with the others, presumably there's a note. I don't know who's died, how they've died, not even where they died. Lestrade was very busy."

"How flustered was he?" I ask, rubbing soap across my arms and torso.

"Very." John replies. "And he was getting abuse from Anderson as well."

"Ah, so Anderson must have been bored to mess with Lestrade in that mood. Therefore it must not be a very forensically interesting crime scene. This case gets more and more interesting by the minute, John!" I say, beaming. "Could you wash my back now, please?"

"Of course, Sherlock." He replies, moving from the toilet to the side of the bath and grabbing the soap. "That or he's trying to impress Donovan again." John jokes.

"Always the possibility, John, always the possibility." I laugh back as John starts rubbing me shoulders. He slowly moves down, washing very methodically, he's done this before. He does a quick wash under my armpits and I flinch.

"You ticklish, Sherlock?" John asks, delightedly curious.

"No, of course not John." I reply

"Let's test that, shall we?" He smirks. Suddenly he's tickling me, hard. All down my sides and under my armpits and under my chin. I start laughing; I can't stop. I realise I haven't laughed this hard in weeks, months even. I'm giggling like a child. And so is he. I almost slip over I'm laughing so much but I feel his strong arms move and support my weight then pull me back on balance. "Right," he announces, smiling like Satan, "now to wash that soap off your back and wet your hair."

"Yes Mother." I reply, still giggling. "I've heard you giggle!" I shout while lying down.

"Yes, yes you have." I hear him say before the water muffles the world. John forces the water into my curls with one hand while supporting my neck with the other. Soon he pulls me back up. "Shampoo time, which one do you use?"

"That one," I say pointing, "the one with the green cap."

"Pass it will you?" I pass it over. I hear the bottle being opened, the wet sound of shampoo being squeezed out and hitting a palm. Then I feel John's large hands massaging my scalp. Control yourself Sherlock. There are no bubbles in this bath. He can see everything.

"You'd make a good masseuse, John, you've got large hands." I attempt at conversation.

"Surprisingly Sherlock, you're not the first to tell me that." He replies, styling my soapy hair.

"Really, how so?" I ask, genuinely intrigued.

"Well, in the Army we couldn't afford to take proper masseuses with us. Nor would we want to, what with them being civilians and the possibility of them being killed, and as the doctor, everyone comes to you in times of stress, increased stress, prolonged- we'll say worry instead. And lets just say you pick up a few tips, here and there." He finishes, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Rinse time now! No, don't lie down, the water's all soapy. I'll use the shower." We have one of those power showers that have the head on the end of a hose rather than fixed to the wall. He starts up the shower. "It's not too hot or cold is it?" I shake my head. "Close your eyes so I don't get shampoo in them."

"I'd rather not, John." I have this thing with shutting my eyes when someone's in the bathroom with me. Blame Mycroft.

"On your own head be it, then." I feel the patter of warm droplets move from my back to my scalp, then John's hand tip my head back and start to wash the shampoo out of my hair.

"Did you ever go further than just a massage, in the Army?" I ask, smiling.

He looks straight into my eyes. "Would you like me to?" he asks. That's it, control lost.

I answer him by starting up into a hard, passionate kiss. Then, as soon as he starts enjoying that, I start kissing and sucking at his neck. I hit a sweet spot just under his ear and he lets out a low moan of pleasure and relaxes almost all his muscles. Unfortunately, this means he lets go of the shower head as well, which crashes into the bath spraying both of us with water on its descent. Not a problem for me as I'm already naked and wet but John is not so happy.

"After your bath, alright Sherlock?" Poor, wet, grumpy John.

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I get him out and dressed quite easily, though he won't stop smirking through the entire time I'm changing.

"Hey John, it's after my bath..." He says, grabbing my arse. He's never done that before, it must be the drugs.

"No, Sherlock," I say, only a little disappointed, "we'll be late otherwise."

"Fine, I can dress myself then John." He says.

"Just a kiss" I reply. He grabs me, I hadn't realised he had this much strength back yet. He starts licking and biting my lips and I let him in. Our tongues dance. My hands slip down the back of his trousers, under his pants and there! I am actually holding Sherlock Holmes' bare bottom! He has an amazing arse. Suddenly he starts necking me, licking and sucking at the same spots as before. They're surely going to colour. He hits the sweet spot again and I groan. "This isn't fair." I say when we stop for breath. I latch on to that long, elegant neck and start sucking, almost biting at times. I find his sweet spot, just to the bottom left of the Adam's apple. I hear him mutter and concentrate my efforts, making sure at least one strong lovebite shows up on that pale, pale skin.

"Stop!" He pulls me roughly of his neck, kisses me sweetly on the lips and pushes me away. It was just getting interesting.

"What are you doing?" I ask, not angry, just curious.

"I can't work effectively with my mind in this frame of..."

"Mind?" I finish for him.

"Yes, I could think of no better way of putting it." He replies.

"Just go to your Mind Palace then." I say, turning to go.

"No time for that." He says sharply. "I just need something that will make this go away." He gestures to the obvious bulge in his trousers.

"Anderson smiling?" I smirk, pleased I could have such an effect on him.

"Ha, close but no cigar." He mutters back, deep in concentration.

"Anderson looking your brother up and down and licking his lips."

"Fuck, yuck! Where did that come from, you can't have seen anything?!" He shouts, genuinely wide-eyed in surprise.

"Wow, a shocked Sherlock, this is a day of firsts." I smirk, though slightly disgusted at the thought myself. "No, you would have anything miles before me or even them two. He's still occasionally fucking Donovan. Probably."

"More than occasionally, actually. Their hands now both generally smell of the same brand of woman's hand soap, meaning she's bought him some or vice versa and they often stay at the others house."

"Astounding, truly astounding." I say gazing into those fierce turquoise eyes.

"But it's elementary, my dear Watson, elementary. If-" He starts but I interrupt.

"No, the fact you managed to smell their hands, on several occasions presumably, without them passing comment. Or at least loud enough for anyone to hear." I turn and shout "Coat time!"

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**Sorry for the cheesy quote, I had to get it in there somewhere. Please review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything and never will.**

**Don't worry, this one isn't as long as the last! (Sorry about that.)**

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Chapter 6

We have to go out the back way as there are lots of paparazzi out front due to the most recent leap in the story the worse papers are already calling 'The Nasty Notes'. Luckily, Lestrade has provided a car, thankfully plain clothes police.

We arrive at the Yard in relative comfort and ease. Unfortunately, all is not well there.

"Sherlock, you're here! Thank fuck for that!" Lestrade shouts through the bedlam, as soon as we step in the building. He rushes over to our side. "This one's different as the note is only half done, the killer was surprised by the cleaners of the office block the deceased was found in, earlier this morning. The deceased does not work there, but appears to be a builder. We can still not verify her identity." He says all in a rush as we walk out of a back entrance of New Scotland Yard and into an unmarked police car. "We're going straight to the crime scene, nothings been moved and I'll just call ahead and get Anderson out of the way, I know my orders!" He directs this last remark at John as we are bundled into the car. I raise my eyebrows at him.

"You're still to weak to go arguing with Anderson-" I interrupt him by whispering so close to his ear...

"Whatever else I may be able to do?"

He starts coughing violently, so much so that Lestrade looks in the wing mirror, for he is driving and therefore can't turn round, and asks if he's alright. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a dry throat, that's all." He chokes.

"I know something that could wet it..." I whisper, he crosses his legs and stares urgently out the window. I should probably stop now too.

He looks back at me, obviously he's calmed down enough now. "Anyway, you can't stay out for more than half an hour, you haven't got the stamina yet." I think about whispering back 'Are you sure there's now other reason?' but it looks like we're almost there and it would embarrass him and myself greatly if he had to get out of the car in that state.

"We're here!" Lestrade comments as we pull up outside a drab squat six story office building somewhere on the outskirts of London. I was too distracted during the journey to keep track exactly.

"Where are we?" John asks, now fully calm. I checked.

"The crappy end of Canary Wharf, somewhere off Tanner Street." Lestrade replies, letting us out of the car. As he gets up, I notice the read marks just starting to appear on John's neck. Mrs Hudson is the only other person, apart from probably Mycroft, who knows about are relationship. Perhaps today will be the day they discover something.

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We get inside. Lestrade hands Sherlock the note. "You're the doctor John," I hear Sherlock cry, "how did this women die?"

"Asphyxiation probably, she is hanging from a beam, Sherlock, surely you don't need my medical training to work that out." I reply.

"Look again, John, and this time actually use your eyes." He sounds exasperated. Good.

"The bruising, round her neck, it's not right." I say.

"She was strung up after she was strung up after she was dead. Okay, so what killed her? Go on, John." Thus encouraged I take a step forward. Her eyes and mouth are open in a last gasp. I reach forward to study closer, I was given gloves and a suit on the door. She has a lovebite on her shoulder. Had. "Her eyes are too bloodshot and the tongue's not meant to be that colour, especially if she was hung after death. Some kind of poison?"

"Yes, but look closer," he states, stepping next to me, "look at her clothes and limbs, they are battered, bruised. You can tell from the sucked in muscles of the face, and I'm sure the post-mortem will prove, that she did due to asphyxiation however it wasn't from being hanged. Oh, no, this woman died of poisoning, most probably cyanide as that's the one that best fits. Immediate unconsciousness, convulsions and death within fifteen minutes. Very handy. But look at the floor, you said the cleaner surprised the killer, she obviously doesn't do a good job 'cause look how dusty it is in here! If she'd died here there would be evidence of her convulsions all over the floor. There isn't so either the killer swept up after he strung her up, which is very unlikely as he was surprised, or, the more logical option, she wasn't killed here, she was killed somewhere else and taken here to be found!"

I'd been staring at him through all that piece of logical wizardry. "You said that all on almost one breath."

"I know." He replies between pants. We keep eye contact for that fraction too long.

"Sherlock," Donovan, shit, "what's that red mark on your neck?" Sherlock is about to reply with something suitably spitting when she bursts out again. "There's three on John's neck as well!"

Anderson sticks his ugly mug round the door. Oh joy of joys. "They've been fucking!" Here we go. He saunters in.

"Anderson, I thought I told you to get the fuck out of here for forty five minutes!" Lestrade buts in, he knows something.

"How can you be shouting at me when those two have got, got sex marks all over their necks!" Anderson whines at Lestrade.

"Lovebites, Anderson, they're called lovebites." Sherlock retorts. He does realise he's not helping the situation.

"So they have been fucking?!" He addresses this again to Lestrade. Who does the only sensible thing in the circumstances.

"We'll let them answer that shall we?!" Lestrade screams back. Everyone's eyes are now on us. Silence envelopes us all in its thick blanket. You could hear a pin leave someone's hand in this silence, let alone hear it drop. Even the world out side has stopped. One crystallised moment in time. I break first.

"Well, we weren't planning to tell you all like this-" No, we were planning to get them all roaring drunk first. I am interrupted by Anderson.

"Oh, that's disgusting!"

"Oh, homophobic now are we Anderson?" I retort.

"No," he yelps too quickly, "just that the idea of you two, together, in a bed-"

"Right, I did not need that image in my head, thank you." Donovan, thankfully, buts in before he can go any further. Screwing her eyes up so tight they disappear.

"I don't think anyone did." Lestrade mutters. He's pulling exactly the same face, it's like the crappiest magic mirror in the Universe.

"Oh, Anderson, please just leave your wife, and forget Sergeant Sally Donovan, and go sit in a gay bar and enjoy yourself for once! Would it kill you?" Sherlock suddenly shouts.

"How, how can you say that?" He falters, this isn't fair.

"Oh, everything from the socks you're wearing to the way you breathe just screams closet homosexual. But the most blatant one is probably the fact that every time you think that Sergeant Donovan and that young forensics officer over there aren't looking, you turn round and stare at his arse, licking your lips." Anderson remains stock still for a moment then simply storms out the building. Donovan storms after him.

"That was unnecessary, Sherlock." I say.

"He was annoying me." He replies, turning back to the body.

"Was any of that sock stuff even true?" I ask.

"True enough." He says with a smile.

"Getting back to the case in hand." Lestrade cuts in. "Can you tell us anything about this woman, Sherlock?"

"Not builder, site manager. Look at those hands!They've held nothing strenuous than a clip board for many a-year. However, she worked her way up. The muscle structure on her back and the finger that has been broken many times but not reset properly, due to the fact she has to keep on working, will testify to that. Long-term but difficult civil partnership-"

"How do you know it's not marriage?" Lestrade asks, just to stop him talking for a second.

"For that you just have to read, something which I'm sure even you can do Lestrade. On the letter it says 'my love, Hattie' Hattie is a girls name, plus the ring on the finger equals civil partnership. Difficult because the finger is slightly swollen from where she recently pulled it off hard. Probably in an argument. Have you found any personal affects?" Sherlock continues.

"Yes, these." Lestrade passes Sherlock a phone and a wallet.

He opens up the wallet. "Definitely going through a difficult patch as there is a space in this wallet that recently held a picture, now it does not. No bank cards so very money conscious or very in debt. The letter mentions money's been tight so probably the latter." He turns his concentration to the phone. "Oh good, it's password protected, this should be fun." He mutters. "Pass us the note, would you Lestrade? It's on that table there." He gestures randomly. I find it on the floor and give it to him. I can almost hear his brain working. He grabs the phone again. "Damn." He drops it on to a table and starts scanning the letter once more. He grabs the phone. "Got it!" He shouts.

"What was it?" I ask.

"Hufflepuff. The name of the presumably pet, hopefully not child, they had." He replies while smashing away at the phone. "Here's the number of 'Hattie'. I suggest I don't call her. I'm don't do people well."

"Yes, someone take the phone of him, now please, before he does something stupid. Doyle, you're family liason aren't you? You do it." Lestrade quickly states. The young police officer comes and takes the phone out of Sherlock's hands.

"Right," I realise I'm the one who's speaking, "is there anything more we can do here?" I ask Lestrade.

"No, I don't think so." He replies.

"Then would you kindly take us home."

We get outside. Anderson is there. I start to walk towards him to apologise but he gives me a look of such deep hatred that I just mouth the word 'sorry' from a safe distance and hurry to catch up with Sherlock, who is now getting into the car. I hear him snort.

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**Please review.**


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